So can we safely assume that gramps dug him up and put him under the floorboards? For you to find?
That sounds so horrendous but given everything you've told me perhaps that was the kind of life they lived and the kind of environment they lived in. Who am I to judge? And at least this way Great-uncle Bojo will get a proper burial and a headstone and things. When are they likely to release his remains do you know?
I may still carry on fleshing out your family tree by the way. You might need it in order to write your memoirs in your dotage. And to say that they are interesting is rather an understatement.
Anyway on to more mundane things.
If this thing with the Dashing Major is going to work then I need my games room and he needs somewhere else to work. I was thinking that I could add a conservatory which would give him lots of light in which to do his drawings and be far more appropriate. A thinly veiled plan I know but one, on discussion, that he agreed with. And one he wants to fund and I'm past arguing that point as he won't budge and it is getting me nowhere.
Anyway the day after the prowler business I got a call from Ever-so-capable Evelyn who wanted to remind us - because we now seem to come as a couple - that we had agreed to spend the weekend down at the Convivial Count's and attend this fete she's been helping plan. To be honest it had completely slipped my mind and I wasn't sure if we should go in the circumstances but we had promised and it did sound as if she needed our support. Reliable Rob and his merry men had been trying to work around us both and when I mentioned that we would be away for the weekend they seemed rather pleased. So that was that.
The conservatory people were booked and he and his men took to demolishing a wall so as to work on the main bedroom and they did everything but pack our bags for us. Piotr the Protective reckoned he would be fine and of course he was on site to keep an eye on the house and so off we went.
Oh and it seems that if you come as a couple you get a much better bedroom. Just saying.
Anyway on arrival I ended up hiding in the library, as is my wont, to keep out of the way of the frantic preparations. I did offer to help but was firmly advised by Merciless Mary that she loved me too much to put me in the line of fire and to find something else to do, dear. Not so lucky for the Dashing Major though. He was roped (no pun intended) into helping put up the last of the marquees. The main ones had been up for days apparently but it seems various local groups had requested space and so there was a last minute rush to put up tents.
The kitchen was a no-go area too. Not only did Merciless Mary appear to be baking for the county but there was a dinner planned for the local dignitaries that evening. Thankfully Ever-so-capable Evelyn had warned us so we had at least packed appropriate attire, though for the Dashing Major this was a suit as his dinner jacket was still in Reading. The poor man was rather bouncing up and down the country.
But what an evening it was.
Unlike last time there was only us staying as house guests and so the other dinner guests arrived separately and gradually (I was going to say in dribs and drabs but there was nothing drab about any of them).
And the first to arrive was none other than Plastic Patty with Pervy Percy. They're a couple now!! Engaged and everything! The wedding is going to be next April at the family church. It seems that her parents have forgiven or forgotten or both and there will be a huge do at their huge house. The Convivial Count has been invited and I'm guessing Ever-so-capable Evelyn will be his plus one so I'm going to task her with taking notes and feeding back any tales and gossip. On a more serious note though they did look incredibly happy and looked so good together. I know that there is an age gap but perhaps she does need a more mature man and he certainly seems to favour a younger woman so maybe a match made in heaven as they say.
Lord and Lady Marmaduke were of course invited and he and I secretly hatched a plan to sit next to each other at dinner. Which we successfully managed and it meant that he could give me the low down on some of the guests that I had never met before. He is such an absolute sweetie and so entertaining.
Sucking-lemons Cynthia was also there in her capacity as chairperson of the local WI. Her husband was a very strange little man. He was very quiet and I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't a little hen-pecked. I'm not sure that I saw him at Lord Marmaduke's party but he was so unassuming that perhaps he was there and I never noticed him.
But bringing the drama were a couple who by all accounts had recently moved into the big house. By this I mean the manor house in the village. Yes we also have a hierarchy of property. Let me call him Barrow-boy Bruce. He was a self-made man from one of the poorer parts of London. Honestly if he mentioned his self-made status once he mentioned it a million times. His wife, Tangerine Tracey, was loud and giddy and orange (spray tanning at its worst). And she had no filter. None at all. And no volume regulator. It seems that Barrow-boy Bruce's company were a big sponsor of the fete and so it was only proper that they would be invited to the dinner. I don't know what their experiences had been of this type of dinner, or even these kind of people, but they either didn't care or were clueless as to how to fit in. Or maybe they didn't want to fit in. I think that they raised heckles from almost the moment they arrived.
Mine were raised when Barrow-boy Bruce clicked his fingers at Jovial James and practically threw his coat at him. Giggling Gertie and Merry Mildred were circulating with drinks and nibbles and got clicked at a few times.
Sucking-lemons Cynthia took against him when he continued to call her a 'gel' (girl) in spite of her telling him pointedly that she was old enough to be his mother. Tangerine Tracey told her not to mind it was just his way and he had always been an ignorant b*****d. I did at that point wonder if people still had smelling salts in the house, or even if they used them, because I could see Sucking-lemons Cynthia fainting with indignation before the evening was through.
Next up was Honest Joe, the local MP, and his wife Simpering Stella. He was the kind of man who, when you shook his hand, you either had the urge to scrub your hand until it bled or check that you were still wearing your watch. Or both. Simpering Stella seemed to be a rather ineffectual person but as a stalwart of the local WI quickly fled towards Sucking-lemons Cynthia when propriety allowed and where she took refuge for most of the evening.
Lord Marmaduke expressed surprise that Honest Joe was at the party at all. Apparently he hadn't been seen in his constituency since his election 8-months ago, preferring to remain in London doing goodness knows what but nothing, as far as Lord Marmaduke could tell, that had anything to do with making good on his election promises. I'll say this though for the MP, he was rather nimble on his feet when it came to evading Lord Marmaduke who was intent on asking some rather awkward questions of the scoundrel.
Lady Marmaduke was her wonderful diplomatic self and did rather try to keep Barrow-boy Bruce in check. At one point she did ask him to stop clicking his fingers as it is never wise to upset staff before they serve you your food. That much at least he appeared to understand and take on board.
And finally, the Right Reverend Rupert (local vicar) arriving with Chief Superintendent Eric (retired). I should perhaps point out that Rupert is not a Right Reverend but rather a local vicar with aspirations. A rather pompous man who doesn't, as far as Lord Marmaduke is concerned, burden himself with humility and who appears to have let the concept of Christian charity pass him by. Chief Superintendent Eric (retired) is the bane of the local constabulary's life and, whilst professing a need to wind down and enjoy retirement, will involve himself in anything and everything crime or security related in the vicinity. According to Ever-so-capable Evelyn he had insisted that he should be on the fete committee to advise on security in spite of the committee already having asked the local community support officer. In the end they were both on the committee and it had been a complete nightmare.
Reading that back it does rather sound as if they wouldn't be amiss in an Agatha Christie novel but I can assure you there were no murders. That kind of thing, my dear Pirate, can happily stay at your end thank you very much. But what I will say is that at some point that evening someone went AWOL, someone ended up in A&E and a pair of knickers were deposited on the hallway chandelier.
More later.
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